


Bite

by bigdrool, omobot



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha Sylvain, M/M, No mpreg, Omega Claude, a dash of political drama, a/b/o dynamics with a twist, including falling in love, political consort, post-AM with canon divergence, rating to be bumped to explicit, yes extremely complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdrool/pseuds/bigdrool, https://archiveofourown.org/users/omobot/pseuds/omobot
Summary: Years after war, Fódlan is in the midst of its recovery when an unexpected opportunity for peace comes from one of its borders: the Almyran king is in need of an alpha mate to father heirs, and they request Fódlan to send one of their best.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	Bite

**Author's Note:**

> Claude has a dick (no vagina), and there won’t be any actual pregnancy involved. Any glaring errors in how a/b/o actually works is entirely omobot's fault. Also, Sylvain has no idea who ‘Khalid’ is but he’s sure to find out in approximately 1k words. :^)

The trip to Almyra is almost disappointingly uneventful, though Sylvain doesn't know what else he'd expected when he'd gone willingly. When the entire Kingdom had agreed that the cost of peace between Fódlan and its hostile neighbor weighed as much as the flesh and bones in one man's body.

It made sense for him to go. The Gautier-Sreng border remained under the watchful eye of his father and his men, and the Margrave had sired enough children to ensure the continuation of the bloodline. (Though the loss of his two eldest sons, one of them a crestbearer, had undoubtedly been devastating.) Sylvain's presence was not required in Fhirdiad either, where Knight Galatea and Advisor Fraldarius kept close watch over the throne. All things considered he was a nuisance in the court, rumors of infidelity following his footsteps like a pestilence. 

It was better that he left, and he had gone willingly, not because his father had commanded it of him, nor because he feared public opinion. But because after fighting one war for six years, nobody deserved to fight a second. Because His Royal Majesty, the Savior King of Fódlan had been foolishly kind enough to tell Sylvain he _didn't_ have to martyr himself, that they could think of another way and that he would not see Sylvain miserable after all he'd endured for his people. Dimitri's consideration had unwittingly hammered the final nail in his proverbial coffin, ferried the casket across Fódlan's Throat and into uncharted desert.

\---

There isn't much to remember of the voyage. Hot days and cold nights, lackluster conversation between him and his travel escort that simply couldn't wait to be free of him and on their way home. He's ushered toward the Almyran palace in a shuttered (heavily armored) carriage, so he can only take in the noise and faint odors outside the vehicle, feeling mildly claustrophobic in the stifling darkness. It's far too hot and dry to really remind him of the well, at least, though the discomfort never eases entirely.

Sylvain is transferred once more on foot from the carriage to the innermost chambers of the royal complex. More indecipherable whispers and curious scents pass him, more palatable—or at least curated—than the city's had been. He's situated in a secluded corner of the compound, presumably reserved for the king’s consorts, though as far as he knows he's the only one. He’s given some time to rest and hydrate before his attendants usher him to the bathing facilities, where he’s relieved of his armor and scrubbed vigorously from head to toe. He’s then slathered in fragrant oils and fitted in loose silks and finely-wrought accessories, light catching the corner of his eyes no matter which way he turns.

The process is in all so efficient it's mesmerizing—and completely loses its charm when a heavy collar is fitted last around his neck, the dark metal a stark contrast to the airy fabric and gold adorning him. The smell of it is cold, and it seems to blanch all other scents from the air.

He's led onward again to the private throne room, the ambience around him changing as the architecture does too, sunlight hitting his skin, and then shade once more. Sylvain finds himself in the center of the chamber, the only occupant save for the pair of guards flanking either side of him. He’s brought to a kneel, told in an abbreviated manner to wait for an audience with the king.

And so he waits, absorbing his surroundings as he does so. The furnishings are few but splendid, rich in color and intricately woven. More impressive are the scalloped arches, inlaid with gold and history, which lead to the ornate seat positioned at the apex of the room.

It’s in the stately silence that Sylvain is hit with the sudden finality of this moment, one that he hadn't really prepared for despite spending his entire life expecting it.

As both crestbearer and alpha, the prize bull of Gautier, he had always been fated to be traded like cattle—he just never imagined it would be to a foreign nation and a foreign sovereign. He never thought he would even survive the six years of fighting proceeding this era of peace, or that he would somehow become instrumental to preserving said peace after the war with the Empire had finally ended.

It almost feels like divine retribution for all the lives he'd claimed, for all the hearts he'd broken even before the bloodshed began. So he’d given himself up without argument, without a fight, without a single thought of escape.

But he does wish, in utmost secret, that someone had cared enough to try to intervene. His mother had grieved, his friends had looked at him with both guilt and gratitude, and regardless they're all far behind him now, too late and out of reach.

His attention sharply pulls back into focus when he hears a second set of footsteps approaching, when he _sees_ who they belong to. The Almyran monarch settles into his rightful seat with an air of regal nonchalance, and Sylvain is prompted to introduce himself. His mouth goes completely dry.

On the throne sits the former Duke Riegan. Former schoolmate, leader of the Golden Deer, and of the disbanded Alliance. He is instantly recognizable despite his garments, purposefully decadent and unlike anything he’s seen of the nobility in Fódlan, his strong figure draped in dark fabrics that convey power, tastefully embellished with gold finery that declare prosperity.

“...Your Majesty,” Sylvain speaks carefully, as practiced. He keeps his voice calm, neutral despite the shock that lances through him, the mild and inexplicable panic accompanying it. “I am Sylvain Jose Gautier, heir of the Margrave Gautier, son of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. I hereby offer myself as your humble servant and companion, as agreed upon by the lords of Fódlan and your esteemed court."

The king graces him with a smile, green eyes entirely familiar, entirely unreadable.

"Sir Gautier, it's my pleasure to welcome you to the capital of Almyra.”

It’s Claude who answers him.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a brief start, but the next chapter should hopefully be up before the month is over! :)


End file.
